


the poets are just kids who didn't make it

by leov66



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, F/M, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Prostitution, Minor Character Death, Trans Male Character, mentions of vomit, she/her pronouns for marius for a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 03:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12622388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leov66/pseuds/leov66
Summary: Marie Pontmercy doesn’t understand the world at all at the tender age of five.When she’s seven, she plays with boys at her school.At ten, she thinks she’s got everything under control.Marius Pontmercy is fifteen years old when he realizes he’s a boy.this is a marius-centric story ive been meaning to write for such a long time now! modern au.





	the poets are just kids who didn't make it

**Author's Note:**

> this is a gift for the lovely [@porktato](https://porktato.tumblr.com) on tumblr (go check out their art Blease) for the 20 followers fic giveaway thing i did a few months back. 
> 
> please enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> **MY TUMBLR:[@euphra-sie](https://euphra-sie.tumblr.com) **

Marie Pontmercy doesn’t understand the world at all at the tender age of five. Everything is always so big, her auntie, her grandpa, the stairs, her house, her bed. Or rather, the house she lives in and the bed she sleeps in. Nothing is actually hers, she’s heard grandpa say it to her auntie in a fit of anger. She doesn’t know what _disobedient_ is, but she’s that. And _clumsy_ , too. _Clumsy_ sounds like a funny word. It rolls off her tongue in a funny way when she sits on her bed, her short legs barely touching the ground. Somebody opened the windows and the sun hits her face nicely, too, like she’s just a little flower waiting to bloom. Her pretty little dress is the shade of a dull pink, and her hair’s put in pigtails. Marie hates pigtails, her auntie always makes them so tight that her head hurts at the end of the day.

 

Her mom would never do that to her, she thinks. If she had a mom. She’s a big girl and she knows she doesn’t have one, she’s nothing but an orphan her grandpa took in out of sheer pity. She knows not to ask about her, or daddy, because it only brings trouble. 

 

She hates getting in trouble, that much she knows. Everything hurts when she’s screamed at, and the bruises on her arms don’t look like flowers at all.

 

When she’s seven, she plays with boys at her school. They all wear pants and drink the soup straight from the plate and impress her with how _free_ they are. She runs through the school with them, with scrapped knees and pencils in her hair, and it’s better than anything she’s ever done. The girls don’t like her, though, they say she looks weird and can’t play with them if she plays with boys.

 

After school, she has violin and French lessons and she’s always so tired she doesn’t do anything more other than learning. Her books - the ones she borrows from the nice lady in the library - lie on the shelves, untouched for weeks. It’s sad, because she really wants to read them, but she never has time anymore. Her auntie gives her cookies, sometimes, usually after she hears her crying in her room.

 

Is it her room, though? All boys and girls say they have posters and pictures and boxes full of toys and all she’s got is a little teddy bear her form teacher gave her when she finished second grade. 

 

At ten, she thinks she’s got everything under control. Sure, her braids aren’t as good as the girls’ whom their mothers and sisters help, but they’re pretty enough. She’s got a scar on her left hand from that first time she tried to iron her own clothes, trying to prove her auntie that she isn’t a waste of time. Her grandpa doesn’t really care about her, doesn’t talk to her except when her report card is there. It’s not like she could possibly get bad grades - she’s always got time for learning, because she’s not allowed to invite anyone into her house. Being the smartest kid in class is pretty satisfying, even if it doesn’t make up for the fact her boy friends are starting to ignore her and she’s lonely again. Oh, and she doesn’t wanna get hit or called stupid ever again.

 

_So many boys? Aren’t you guys gonna fight for her one day? So young and she’s such a magnet!_

 

No, she isn’t a _magnet,_ whatever that means, she just wants to have friends, but apparently girls and boys can’t be friends.

 

On one occasion, though, she forgets her clothes for PE, and one of her male classmates says he’s got two sets, so he gives her one. Upon putting it on, Marie feels like something is different, that she feels more comfy in those big t-shirts and loose pants than she ever did in a pretty dress and nice stockings. 

 

 _Is there something wrong with her?_ The very same day, after her violin lessons, she steals one of her grandfather’s shirts and his pants, too, and hides them somewhere only she can find. Wearing men’s clothes feels _right_ , and it would’ve been even better if she could cut her hair so she wouldn’t feel all the time, but her auntie screams at her and calls her dumb and says _until you’re eighteen your body belongs to me and if you cut your hair, I’ll make sure you remember your lesson_. She cries, absolutely terrified, and watches her grandfather look at the scene with a blank expression.

 

Is it bad to hate your family? Six more years and she’ll be free.

 

In middle school, she’s got big expectations. All the books and movies about teenagers tell her she’ll have friends, have fun, learn exctiting things, and it’s everything she could wish for. 

 

Except it’s nothing like the books tell her. She stays up late to finish homework, people laugh at her face, her childish clothes (there’s nothing she can do about it, her auntie buys her clothes), point out her weird hair. The school nurse tells her it’s because they’re jealous that she’s smarter than them, but she’s not so sure. By eighth grade, her grades begin to slip ever the slightest bit. It’s weird, because she spends more time than ever in her books, to the point of crying and constant exhaution, but it’s never enough. 

 

There’s this _boy thing_ , too. It feels so weird, but she starts to wish she had been born a boy. Her grandpa used to say that many years ago, _when he’d still hoped_ , or so he says, and she never wanted that. Except she did. It feels so wrong to do her hair and put on dresses and skirts, because _that’s not her_.

 

Marius Pontmercy is fifteen years old when he realizes he’s a boy. The revelation terrifies him, makes him lie awake at night, wondering _what will people think_ , _what kind of joke is this,_ but he doesn’t want people to judge him and it’s not a joke. The shirt and pants barely fit him anymore, he’s grown too tall for him, but he wears them sometimes, when the thoughts in his head won’t stop twirling, won’t stop hurting.

 

By the time he graduates from middle school, his head feels like an absolute mess. Constant pretending, laghing at his grandfather’s dumb jokes (he realised he should be nicer to his _granddaughter_ or else she gets stupid thoughts and leaves that awful town to study, which is exactly what Marius plans on doing) and maintaining good grades (not straight A’s, perhaps, but good enough to be one of the best) leave him tired and empty, no longer the curious and happy child he used to be. It feels dumb, he’s barely sixteen and it’s almost like he’s _depressed_ or something.

 

He’s also sixteen when he meets Courfeyrac. He’s a new student who came to the city in the middle of the schoolyear, and they hit it off instantly. That’s pretty surprising to Marius, but there’s something about that curly hair, hazel eyes and warm smile that makes it impossible to dislike him.

 

The very same curly hair, hazel eyes and warm smile make him lie awake at night, thinking about what it’d be like to kiss Courfeyrac. There’s nothing wrong about it, is it? Just a dumb crush. _A dumb crush_ , he tells himself when he’s given kindness for the first time in his life, acceptance without reluctance, wishing their hands would touch more often. It hurts to watch Courfeyrac flirt with other boys, hurts to hear him call Marius by that awful name he’s been given. At least there’s a possibility, right? There’s hoping, had he been born a boy, that they might have had something. (They kiss in one of his dreams, and he wakes up in cold sweat and with a hand ghosting over his cold lips.)

 

Courfeyrac is the first person that invites him over (his grandfather doesn’t mind, neither does his aunt, they both smile ’knowingly’ and say that it’s about time). They talk for hours, watch movies (Marius is apparently _so_ uneducated when it comes to cult classics), study for exams and simply sit next to each other until it feels like they’ve known each other for an enternity or two.

 

Courfeyrac’s parents are always kind to him, they even wished him a happy birthday once because Courfeyrac was excited about giving her a present (it’s an old copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , because they both love that book, and a handwritten, three-page-long letter, because _that’s what you deserve_ ). 

 

Seventeen years old, out stargazing with Courfeyrac, way past his curfew, Marius takes a deep breath.

 

 _I need to tell you something, Courf,_ he says, hands sweaty, hidden in his hoodie’s pockets. _I think…no, I don’t think, I_ know _this. I’m not a girl. I’ve known this for two years now._

 

A moment of silence. _That’s alright. You know I’ll always support you. Should I…uh…call you by a different name? Would you like that?_

 

_Y-yeah. It’s, uh, Marius._

 

_Marius Pontmercy…I like the way it sounds._

 

_Me too._

 

Accidentally, they lean in just a bit too close for it to be considered platonic. Marius, for the first time in what feels like forever, feels _free_ when he closes the distance between them with a gentle kiss. It’s a bit awkward, it’s new, but it’s good. He deserves this, he tries to tell himself. This is what it’s like to be accepted, to be _loved._

 

Halfway through senior year, he cuts his hair and burns his childhood dresses. It feels good, to finally embrace that that’s who he is, that that part of him isn’t going anywhere. Like a dream come true. He doesn’t care about his aunt or his grandfather, hasn’t cared about them since he talked to Courfeyrac’s parents and learnt the words _domestic abuse_. _That’s what it is, there’s no other way of saying it, sweetie,_ Madame Courfeyrac tells him without a shadow of a doubt. _A few months and you’ll be free._  

 

A few months and he’ll be free. He tells himself that, when he’s punched in the face for saying he’s already applied to college, _far away from you, and there’s nothing you can do about it,_ when he’s told he can’t do anything, that he’s worthless, that he should just _calm down_ , but he hasn’t been calm for a long time now. 

 

His family - no, he doesn’t call them that anymore, can’t call them that, they’re just the people who raised him - doesn’t even show up at his graduation day. It doesn’t matter, because Courfeyrac is there, holds his hand, winks at him when _Marie Pontmercy_ is called for the last time ever _._

 

By the time June comes to an end, he’s already packed everything. He’s never been more eager to leave than the moment Courfeyrac’s dumb red Ford, the very same one they almost had sex in that one time they decided to skip prom, appears in front of his house’s driveway.

 

There are no goodbyes, and he’s almost tempted to return for a minute or two and bite back all their vicious words, but he’s better than that. He kisses his boyfriend’s hand and smiles, free at last.

 

Having chosen different majors (political science and journalism), the first year of college basically consists of him and Courfeyrac trying to figure things out. The innitial period of freedom is tough and he’s never been happier he’s got medical insurance because being treated for alcohol poisoning is a) not fun, b) pretty fucking expensive. Courfeyrac never really lets that one go, and Marius absolutely hates him for this.

 

Somewhere around their second year, they split for a few months. It was a mutual agreement of sorts, a feeling of stagnation in their relation that only made them turn bitter, and those months they both spend with other people, in more ways than one. Marius learns more about life than ever before, mainly because this little cocoon he’s surrounded himself in is finally open and he’s out, laid bare. 

 

Adulting is pretty hard, he realizes, when he fucks up managing his budget and lives off of mac and cheese for forty days. He’s kinda like Jesus, except even more dehydrated and pretty tired, too.

 

By third year, they’re back together, different people but still together. Marius still has that copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ lying somewhere in his dirty dorm room. They still geek out about _Star Trek_ and take part in charity marathons ’for the good cause, babe, the baby otters/ narwhals/ our dying planet will thank you!’ (Courfeyrac is ever the activist, it seems like that part is never going away, either.) Maybe they argue more often, but it’s only because Marius has learnt not to take shit from people anymore. It’s hard sometimes, he still has nightmares, he still flinches when he’s touched forcefully without a warning, but he’s getting there. Courfeyrac is there for him, holds his hand when he wakes up, lets him cry when he needs to cry, and loves him for being the imperfect, adorable dork he’s always been.

 

Graduation lines up with his Annual Breakdown (sometimes it’s August, sometimes May, it depends), and he can barely find the strength to shower and smile for the photos. He’s happy for himself, and he’s happy for his boyfriend, and that’s enough for now. 

 

 _It’s alright, I’m getting there, I promise_ , he whispers, tearfully, _scared_ , and clutches Courfeyrac’s hand even tighter.

 

 _I know, baby, I know. It’s alright_ , Courfeyrac whispers back, and he closes his eyes. 

 

When he wakes up next to Courfeyrac for the first few mornings in their little apartment, he starts crying. It’s a mixture of joy, relief and something else entirely, realisation that it really is over, he really is free. His boyfriend only smiles fondly and hugs him tighter, eventually falling asleep again. It’s what Marius always wished for, this sort of gentle domesticity, the kind of love that made both people _happy._

 

 _Fuck the economy,_ they realize at some point, while trying to find decent jobs. Marius, after a few months, gives up and becomes a Starbucks barista. The good thing about it? Coffee. The bad thing about it? Literally everything else. In the meantime, he also teaches two kids German (the hours he spent learning it when he was a child finally came in handy, didn’t they), and along with Courfeyrac waiting tables most of the evenings and going to job interviews more often than not, it’s enough to get by. Maybe Marius used to have big dreams, back then, but not anymore. To be with the person he loves, to be able to come back home to Courfeyrac at the end of the day, to afford slowly paying off all their student loans and current bills; that’s enough.

 

Out of the two of them, it’s Courfeyrac who’s the idealist, he’s the restless one who keeps looking at job offers, keeps _trying_ , even if the constant rejections only make him sad and angry.

 

Their little life, humble life, Marius considers some sort of stability in his life. They know Marius’ phone alarms begins to ring at six precisely, and by six-thirty he’s out of the door, then at around ten Courfeyrac wakes up and either prepares for a job interview or just cleans the apartment or something. At two in the afternoon, Marius comes back from Starbucks, and they’ve got two hours until Courfeyrac has to leave for the restaurant. On Tuesday and Thursday evenings Marius goes out at five for two hours for those German lessons. Courfeyrac usually returns around eleven, and most of the time finds Marius fast asleep on the couch in an attempt to wait for his boyfriend. They even have a little circle of friends, a few from college, a few from their respective jobs. It’s nice, they try to meet at least once a month. 

 

They spend their first Christmas at home, with no fancy dinner, but at least they’ve got each other. It’s enough that Marius can just hold Courfeyrac, play with his hair and tell him he loves him. It doesn’t matter that not everything is alright, Marius, despite changing his name anywhere he can, still can’t afford to change that godawful F to M on his health insurance - or rather, the hypersectomy, for now, they’re the luckiest people on earth because they’ve found each other.

 

That’s probably why it sounds like such betrayal when Courfeyrac mentions he’s been considering joining the army. Marius feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, but sucks it up and tries to smile. It’s understandable, Courfeyrac’s too discouraged from trying to find a decent job, too broke to spend two more years in college and make that MA despite a great GPA, too eager to _do something,_ it feels like the perfect choice. 

 

But it’s not a perfect choice, good God, it’s a horrible one. Marius tries to talk him out of it, but the very same stubbornness that he found endearing makes it impossible to convince Courfeyrac it’s, in fact, a shitty idea he hasn’t thought through. 

 

In the end, there’s nothing he can do, so he does nothing. He helps him pack without a single word of protest, drives him to the train station, kisses his cheek, nods his head at the whispered ’I’ll be back, I promise’. 

 

It doesn’t matter if he breaks down on the way back home, crying so hard he has to pull over and let it all out. He’s barely twenty-five, and he’s alone all over again.

 

Life feels like a blur without Courfeyrac, a monotonous caleidoscope of the very same events, just work, home, cleaning, day after day, week after week. He’s long since cut ties with their friends, he doesn’t need them and without Courfeyrac, they wouldn’t even want to talk to him, he _knows_ he’s got nothing to offer without his boyfriend by his side.

 

Without Courfeyrac, he’s even harder reminded of how he felt in high school, sad, tired, both physically and mentally. His insomnia acts up again, nothing feels real anymore, his body feels like a fucking cage. For a while, he considers seeing a therapist, perhaps, but he knows better than to bother other people with his problems. With Courfeyrac, he was a bit of a mess, sometimes a tad too nervous, but at peace. Without Courfeyrac, he’s back on his bullshit, ugly, unloveable and unbearable.

 

The first letter arrives after two months. Marius lives off of it for literal weeks, too eager to hear from Courfeyrac, too much like a fucking puppy, some voice at the back of his head tells him. He’s happy, though, that Courfeyrac is finding himself or whatever. Marius’ grandfather - _oh, it’s bad again, he hasn’t thought about him in such a long time_ \- used to be in the military, just like his father, or so he heard once. He never looked into it, though, unwilling to dig up anything that wouldn’t meet his expectations.

 

He hates himself, hates his fucked up family that in turn made him fucked up, hates that he’s got a fucking degree but it’s not enough for _anything_ , hates that he’s forced to hide how much he misses Courfeyrac because boys don’t cry and if he cries, that means he’s not enough of a man and it only makes him spiral further and further down the self-destructive path. 

 

His jobs (he needed to take up one more, because money doesn’t earn itself and the rent seems to be getting higher every month) become the only stability he’s got left, and he immerses himself in it the way he used to keep learning and learning when he had no one to talk to, no one to trust.

 

 _Maybe it’s better that Courfeyrac left_ , he thinks one day. Maybe it’s been five months? Maybe six? He doesn’t know. Every day is the same. Work and work and some chores and errands, dinner maybe, sleep, work, work and so on until it’s all he knows, that dull tiredness and loneliness. It goes on and on, because there’s no other way, because he can’t just sit in the shower and stay there forever. He doesn’t know when he started speaking of it as _leaving_ , as if he was never coming back. 

 

In the middle of the night, sleep-deprived and afraid, it’s like he knows Courfeyrac will never be back.

 

A whole year passes, then another, and there are still letters. Courfeyrac seems to be happy with how things are, writes about the friends he’s made along the way, the upcoming six-month mission, Iran? Afghanistan? Marius remembers the dull information, the basic geography back from tenth grade maybe, but it doesn’t even feel real. What matters is that Courfeyrac is going to be even more away from him, putting himself in actual danger. Great, just what he explicitly promised he _wouldn’t do._  

 

Somehow, after hitting rock bottom (or what he thought was rock bottom), he spirals even further than anticipated. He takes a week off work, unable to function properly, just sitting in bed, sometimes drinking some coffee or tap water, maybe eating an apple or something. He’s in Courfeyrac’s pants, that’s almost sure, hasn’t showered in four days and just wants to die. All his life, he’s tried, he’s fought, he’s learnt, but now it doesn’t feel like there’s an inch of a fire inside him anymore.

 

Thirty months (not that he counted) have passed since Courfeyrac left when he gets a letter. He knows it’s not from him, because he doesn’t recognize the orderly handwriting on the evenlope. 

 

He knows what he’s gonna find inside, too, before he tears it open with shaky hands.

 

A heartbeat, then another. A breath in, a breath out.

 

_Dear Mister Pontmercy,_

 

_it seemed proper to write this letter since the official one would only be sent to his mother and father, yet I am at loss for words nevertheless. As you must have figured out by now, Michel Courfeyrac has died in action. By doing so, he has saved the rest of our group, including me, although I doubt this would bring you any consolation at all._

 

_During those months, he has been my friend. Given the amount of stories he has told me about the two of you, I felt like I could not leave the person he loved so dearly without any form of comfort. The mission may not have changed the entire world, or be remembered for decades, but the people whose lives he has saved will not forget his bravery and kindness._

 

_I truly hope you find the strength within yourself to not give up. The world might seem like the dark place, but sometimes there are good things in it, too. He would have wanted you to find them._

 

_Yours sincerely, Laurent Enjolras._

 

The letter falls from his hands. He should’ve seen it coming, truly, there’s no other news the evenlope could’ve born, yet he trembles anyway. Before he knows it, his hands are in his hair and he’s _crying_ , calling out for someone he only remembers because he forced himself to, and it’s absolutely terrible. He hates Courfeyrac for leaving and _dying_ , hates himself for letting him go, for being alone again, and somehow he hates Enjolras, too, even if he meant well. _How dare he claim to know anything about him_ , Marius thinks for a while until it’s all too much. A week, perhaps, passes, he doesn’t know, but slowly, he tries to brush his teeth, eat something before he fucking dies, maybe takes a shower. 

 

He celebrates his twenty-eighth birthday alone, but it’s nothing new by now. He gets himself back on track, pulls himself together piece by piece and it’s ugly, it’s throwing up every morning because he can’t stand his reflection until he punches the mirror and bleeds into the sink for almost thirty minutes (his head feels dizzy, but it’s worth it, because he can barely recognize his features in broken glass), it’s feeling like a prisoner in his own body, it’s insomnia and self-doubt, but he tries because _he must go on_ , not for a boy he used to love, not for revenge on his grandfather, but for himself, and for a future, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

 

He takes cooking classes most of the evenings and has group therapy every Thursday. That’s where he meets Cosette. She’s always quiet, but when she smiles, it’s like a blooming sunflower amongst rye, unmistakeably beautiful and filled with the kind of joy you just _remember_. 

 

 _My name’s Cosette and I’m twenty-seven, going on twenty-eight. My mother died when I was a little child. My foster parents abused me. Then Papa took me in, but he died when I was seventeen. I lived on the streets and became a prostitute. I had a son when I was eighteen, his name is Camille. With the help of…a_ friend _I’d met back then_ , _I went back to high school, worked a few jobs to manage a living, and…here I am._

 

She tells a success story or so it seems, but her eyes don’t hide the pain for a second when they look right into his.

 

He takes on the challenge and speaks up for the first time in a few weeks.

 

 _My name’s Marius and I’m twenty-eight. I never knew my parents, and my grandfather abused me. My,_ the word can’t go past his throat despite everything _, my_ friend _that helped me get out and with whom I lived for five years, went to the army and died on a mission. I had a depressive episode and tried to kill myself, but I didn’t, and, uh, here I am, I guess._

 

(He doesn’t want to remember _that part,_ either. It was a sunny March afternoon, but he bought a bottle of painkillers, downed most of it with vodka and went to sleep. He didn’t think much of it, back then, but it was a breaking point. When he woke up, almost two days later, sore and sick of all of it, he knew enough was enough. He _tried,_ and it didn’t work, so that was a sign, wasn’t it?)

 

A few days after, he gets another leter from Enjolras. It says that he wasn’t coming back to Afghanistan, _too tired of trying to change the world,_ and asked if Marius would be willing to talk to him in person one day, should the opportunity arise. Marius writes a reply, then rips it up, writes another, and sends that one. Enjolras writes him back in less than a month, and, amidst cold October air, he’s counting days until their meeting. 

 

The small city has never felt smaller when he’s faced with steel-blue eyes and what once had to be beautiful blond hair. Laurent Enjolras is equal parts unlike anything Marius had anticipated and the perfect match. The crowd terrifies him a little, Marius can see that in his hunched posture and unsure words, but he must’ve been a leader at some point in the past. There’s an aura of confidence and mystery that pulls Marius in like never before. 

 

“He must’ve loved you,” Enjolras says with a hint of amusement, a reminiscence of his own life perhaps.

 

“He did, but he’s dead and no amount of love could bring him back,” Marius replies without hesitance, maybe too spiteful, he doesn’t know, he’s fallen out of the habit of talking to people.

 

“You sound as if all things good and beautiful have died with him. _Though lovers be lost, love shall not; and death have no dominion,_ have you ever heard of that?”, he recites like he’s said it countless times before.

 

“Not really.” Marius has never been one for poetry.

 

“It’s Dylan Thomas, my…well, _a person I used to know_ loved that one.”

 

“That’s why you keep playing with the ring, isn’t it?”, Marius blurts out before he can stop himself. “I apologize if I’ve, uh-”

 

“No, don’t, that’s entirely true,” Enjolras almost smiles and lets go of the ring on a chain around his neck he’s been mindlessly touching. “It’s a long and sad story that’d better stay in the past.”

 

“Perhaps it should not, if there is a chance.”

 

“I admire your idealism, but we haven’t spoken in eight years, I don’t even know where he lives. We didn’t exactly leave on the greatest terms, either.”

 

The bitter regret that rolls off Enjolras’ tongue is too relatable for Marius who knows it all too well. “So many things we could’ve said or kept to ourselves. So many pointless arguements.”

 

Enjolras only nods, too caught up in his own thoughts. Perhaps there’s a lesson they both ought to learn from each other. _Being human is to keep loving, and to keep looking for love even after your heart is broken._

 

With a memory of a promise still fresh in his mind, he talks to Cosette after one group session.

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but your son must be eight or nine years old now. What’s that, third grade?”

 

She smiles at him. “Yeah, he’s in third grade. They grow up so quickly, I still remember his first day of school, he wanted to go home so bad.”

 

“You must love him dearly, don’t you?”

 

“He’s all I’ve got left, now. You don’t have any kids, or…”

 

“No, no, I couldn’t…even if I wanted, that’s, uh, oh man, that’s a long story,” he laughs awkwardly because _there he goes telling his entire life story to a fucking stranger, this is why he has no fucking friends._

 

Cosette doesn’t seem to mind and they get some coffee after therapy the next week. They talk a bit about their pasts, but try to keep things as neutral as possible. Seems like they’ve both been through enough and don’t wanna get their hopes up too fast.

 

They keep talking, though, and keep smiling at each other in the grocery store until she actually asks him out. After a few months, he meets Camille, and the kid seems to like him. It makes Cosette happy, because he knows how much it meant to her to have her son’s approval.

 

Sometimes, they talk about Eponine and Courfeyrac, if only to prove that it really does get better. _I loved her, but she had to leave_ , Cosette would say, and Marius would nod. _I loved him too, and he just left._

 

Thirty years old, he’s on meds, tries not to skip therapy, spends Christmas with Cosette and Camille, and writes another letter to Enjolras. He could just call, but somehow it’s not the same. Before he sends it, though, he gets a wedding invitation. He smiles to himself while opening it, and surprises himself by how happy he is for the man. 

 

“It’ll do you good, I think, to go there,” Cosette tells him that evening before pressing a kiss to his temples. “One thing ends, another begins.”

 

“Maybe I’ll let him go for good.”

 

He decides to go, and even if the plane ticket is _pretty fucking expensive,_ Enjolras’ face when he spots him at the airport and tugs at his fiancé’s sleeve is enough to make it all worth it.

 

“And _this,_ dear,” he smiles, _actually smiles,_ “is the Marius Pontmercy I told you about.” 

 

Marius smiles, too, because he really is happy to be there. 

 

“I believe we haven’t been introduced yet,” the third man, all messy curls and loving gazes, says, smiling just as brightly. “The name’s Grantaire, but hopefully not for long.”

 

Enjolras kisses his cheek and looks at him like he’s put the stars on the nightsky. “I took your advice, and somehow we’ve found each other again. Wasn’t easy, but seems like fate will find its way.”

 

The wedding’s a small formality, far less important than the love that almost seeps out of Enjolras and Grantaire. To have found each other after so many years and still admire each other so much, that’s rare in today’s world, Marius muses at some point. It makes him look back at what he and Cosette have, and that’s when he realizes how lucky he is.

 

At thirty-three, Marius Pontmercy is married to a woman he loves and raises a son with her. It’s not perfect because it never is, but it’s more than enough and more than he ever hoped for, and so he’s finally happy.

**Author's Note:**

> referenced poem: [and death shall have no dominion](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/and-death-shall-have-no-dominion/) by dylan thomas


End file.
